3rd December 2009
Dear Emma,
What have I discovered about you this year?
a) You can literally sleep anywhere. The top of a triple bunk in a twelve mixed dormitory even when four already wasted Ozzies are playing the two-up drinking game on Anzac Day.
b) You love the sky. At dawn, at dusk, puffy with clouds, ribboned with pinks and purples. You’re always pointing it out to me. As if I don’t see it. I suppose I sort of don’t. Not in the way you do. Getting me up on my thirtieth to see the dawn was pretty special.
c) You’re afraid of fowl. Which is both surprising and hilarious. (That little blue penguin did not “look at you threateningly.”)
d) You read voraciously. You just love books. Laughing, crying—totally transported. I envy your passion for them, the light in your eyes when you quote from them. I love your endless attempts to convert me from sporting memoirs.
e) You’re kind to me. Even when I’m being a dick. I’m not sure why I’m choosing to bring this up in my romantic letter to you but I still feel ashamed about that night I fell out with you because I thought it was pronounced ex-press-oh and you were adamant it was es-press-oh. I ended up saying all this stuff that wasn’t even true—you’re absolutely not a know-it-all. And then, when you should have left me on that bench with my pout and my curled fists . . . you didn’t. You just came and sat down next to me and leaned your head on my shoulder. You gave me the space to climb down off my embarrassing high horse and apologize. I’m sorry again. And you were right, it is es-press-oh (Yeah I googled it didn’t I? See, I am a dick).
f) You make friends anywhere and easily. You’re always outside a loo, holding hands with some stranger, subtly waving me away as you hand her a tissue for her eyes. How do you get people to tell you stuff that makes them cry after three seconds of meeting them? You’re always doing things for other people. You offer lifts, shared taxis, to drop round a book they might love. You lent that one girl the soft pink cardigan you adored because she was cold and seemed sad. YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HER NAME. You literally gave her the clothes off your back.
I know those months traveling with you will forever be a golden time in my life. I’m not sure I could have felt happier if I’d tried. It was a shock to come home. Greeted by my parents and Hattie, their exclamations, their hugs. And God I love my family—I do—but for a second I was overwhelmed with sadness that the magic of being just the two of us was over. It had been completely amazing.
But shit, as you say, has got real for us. And a hostel on the East Coast of Australia is no place for us to bring up a baby.
A baby.
I still can’t really believe it.
It’s not that I’m not excited—you know I am. I just can’t believe that in seven months I’m going to be a dad. A father. Someone’s old man. Pot and Pan. Me old geezer.
I’ll never forget your face as you emerged from the filthy loo in that hostel in Noosa—the way you drifted toward me like a ghost; I was gripped with fear. What had happened? I knew from the look you were giving me that something fundamental had shifted. We were careering into the “After.”
Maybe you were worried how I’d react. I’m not half as impetuous as you, I’m a list-maker. My jobs have literally been about strategy, planning. I know I didn’t respond like men do in films: spin you round or cup your stomach. But being that I thought you had food poisoning it was A LOT to take in. And sometimes you need to give the rest of us a moment to catch up with you. When you’re flying in, throwing everything at it, you need to give us a second to get our heads round it.
My whole family are over the moon, I’m so glad Mum’s surprise spa weekend with Hattie was such a great time to bond (less glad about the fact she brought along those photos—some babies just don’t grow hair for ages).
I am excited, Emma. Frightened, obviously. I have no doubt you’ll be amazing. I just know I’ve got to step up to the plate now (sorry, I know you hate sporting analogies) and make sure I don’t drop the ball (it’s an illness, OK?).
I love you (and the bump) (?!). Shhhhhiiittttttt. I can’t wait to see what our fourth year brings us . . .
Dan x x